


Of Chocolate Frogs and Charms and Candles

by ninemoons42



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - School, Banter, Candy, Class Issues, Companionable Snark, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Duelling, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Inter-House Unity, M/M, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier enters Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry armed with nothing but his own wits, his father's love, and a handful of Chocolate Frogs.</p><p>And there he finds out that he doesn't ever have to be alone again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Chocolate Frogs and Charms and Candles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pallorsomnium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallorsomnium/gifts).



> Thanks to Afrocurl for the beta, the encouragement, and the suggestions for improvement.
> 
> \-----
> 
> Marked as **Underage** on a technicality: a majority of the characters involved are the Wizarding World equivalent of high school students.

He’d heard stories about the Great Hall, of course. Who hadn’t? Wasn’t it a historical place, an important place? There were photographs scattered throughout his father’s unbundled papers, a bare handful tucked here and there and sometimes pinned to one sheet or another without any real sense of order. Never the same sky in any of the photos; never the same light or even the same shadows.

He tried to smile, and knew he wasn’t doing a very good job of it right now. He was wary and nervous and trying to hide from everyone looking on. Expectant and staring faces on all sides. He was by no means a shy child - the people he’d once known had thoroughly and forcibly cured him of that - but his first instinct was still to find something to hide behind, even if it was as flimsy as a dangling dark sleeve.

Until he took another breath and remembered his father’s hands, large and warm on his shoulders on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. His father had been wearing his best robes that morning, to see him off on the Hogwarts Express. He’d never looked so gentle and serious and father-like before - all the way to the fact that he’d slipped an extra box of Chocolate Frogs into one of the trunks.

But he remembered his father’s words, remembered the crisp folds in the deep grey robes trimmed in white and blue.

He took a deep breath, and tried his best to stand up as straight as he could. 

So many people in line, he thought, and today, he was fairly sure that he would have to be called last of all.

Charles set his jaw, curled his hands into fists, and tried his hardest to avoid blinking. Even as he followed the rest of the line and turned to face the rest of the Great Hall, he kept his eyes wide open, to the point that he thought he might sneeze, or fall down flat on his face for absolutely no reason at all, or _something_. The Wizarding World was strange, and this was one of the places where strange things were the norm rather than the exception. 

If only for that very reason alone, he wanted to like Hogwarts, and he especially wanted to like its Great Hall.

Four long tables running the length of the hall, and a galaxy of candles suspended overhead. 

There was a voice whispering behind him, in not-quite-properly-accented English, and it made him turn around and squint doubtfully at the people around him in the line.

His eyes lit on the boy with the slouched-over shoulders, with the robes that seemed to fall just a little short of his ankles.

Through the chatter and the noise in the Great Hall he could just barely make out the boy’s whispers - he was telling himself about the room, about the candles and about the shifting images of the sky above them.

In here, it was warm, and the breeze that stirred the flames was created by hundreds of whispering voices; out there, and they’d had to run from it, was the promise of a wind-lashed night. Even now, if he strained his ears, Charles thought he could hear the occasional gust of wind as it drove pattering raindrops against the new glass in the ancient windows.

He edged out of his place in the line - the girl standing behind him, alternating between blushing and blanching, half-fell forward into the vacated spot - and approached the boy who was whispering. “My father came back here after the battle,” he offered. “Came back to help repair the windows. He’s very good at repairing broken things.”

The boy looked around, squinting, before focusing on Charles. There was a keen spark in his eyes. “He repaired the windows with magic?”

“Yes, he did. He wasn’t alone, of course. There are too many windows here for just one person to do.”

“Yes, you’re right.” A pause, and then the boy took a half-step back, and motioned Charles into the line next to him. “You come from a Wizarding family.”

“I do,” Charles said. “And I have forgotten to introduce myself properly. Sorry about that. My father would tell me off for having such bad manners. I’m Charles Francis Xavier, how do you do?” He held out his hand and pulled up his sleeve at the same time, showing the front and the back of his arm as he’d been taught to do. Clean hands, not a mark on the skin, except for his freckles.

The taller boy did the same, turning his hand and his arm over. In the light of the candles he seemed to have bronzed skin. “I’m Erik Lehnsherr.”

“Pleased to meet you, Erik,” Charles said.

“I come from a Muggle family,” Erik said next.

“Maybe you can tell me a little about it, if that’s okay with you? I know a little about Muggle London, and I think it won’t mean much.” Somehow it was easy to smile at him, and Charles did so, while rummaging in his pocket for a few more Chocolate Frogs. “Here,” he said, dropping the first three he came up with into Erik’s hand. “You know about the cards?”

Erik grinned, toothy and bright and unexpected. “Yes. I have one of Ignatia Wildsmith and two of Dzou Yen.”

Charles stared at him for a moment, and then, a little over-enthusiastically, said, “I will trade you a full set of Founders cards for your second Dzou Yen. I’ve been looking for his card for _ages_. Please say yes.” 

“You have a complete set of the Founders?”

“Father has one of mine, I collected the set for him and gave it to him for Christmas a few years ago. I have two other sets at home.” Charles blinked. “They’re not that rare, honestly.”

“But it shows that you have been eating a lot of chocolate,” Erik said, mock-seriously.

“I also eat Toothflossing Stringmints after every meal, even though I think they’re icky, so I’m not exactly worried about my teeth.”

Erik covered up his laugh with his hand. “I forget that there are also such things.”

“Father insists I eat them, so.” Charles shrugged.

Erik looked like he was about to say something, but then there was a great creaking noise and Charles watched him turn just in time for the doors to the Great Hall to swing shut, though there was nobody anywhere near them.

Someone made a throat-clearing noise, and this time it was Charles who turned first - to catch Rubeus Hagrid coming in through a door to the side. His appearance was greeted by appreciative whistling and hoots from some of the students at the great tables. “Settle down, yeh lot,” he rumbled, smiling, and he didn’t seem to need any charms to amplify the sound of his deep and cheerful voice. “Welcome, First Years,” he said, and as he drew closer Charles could see that he was carrying a worn stool, a tall and battered stand, a grubby and patched hat, and a scroll, the last of which was a strangely small thing in an outsized coat-pocket. All of the items seemed to be dwarfed by the huge bulk of his frame. “Very honoured to help conduct this year’s Sorting, I am,” he said as he placed the Sorting Hat on its stand. 

“Charles,” Erik whispered, a small sound in a sudden commotion of shuffling shoes and rustling robes, and Charles nodded and took Erik’s hand for a moment, just until they were standing next to each other, off to the left from where Hagrid had positioned the Sorting Hat. 

“I’m here,” Charles told Erik. “And I think we’re allowed to eat during the Sorting so long as they haven’t called us yet.”

“I’m a little nervous.”

“You need chocolate,” Charles said, and he quickly and silently unwrapped a Chocolate Frog and broke it in two. He handed Erik the bigger portion, and added, “Keep the card.” 

“It’s Dippet,” Erik said after a moment.

Charles smiled and finished off his part of the Frog in two bites.

Hagrid began to call the names of the students, and one after another they strode or stumbled up to the Sorting Hat - and sometimes it shouted out the student’s House immediately, and sometimes it didn’t. One of the girls sat there for a full two minutes, the Sorting Hat’s brim falling right into her face so that all Charles could see was her mouth as it moved. He thought she might be arguing with the Hat; he was familiar with the idea of a Hatstall, because he’d been listening to his father’s stories.

“Lehnsherr, Erik,” Hagrid said, suddenly.

Erik turned white, stood up straight, and dashed toward the Hat.

“Good luck,” Charles whispered to his retreating back.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the Hat shrieked less than a minute later, and there were shouts of welcome from the third table.

Erik was now red in the face as he got up to go to that table, but he stopped in his tracks as Hagrid held him in place to do the same thing he’d done for all of the other students. Hagrid grinned, pulled his pink umbrella from yet _another_ pocket and waggled its tip in Erik’s direction. Out flew a long length of yellow-and-black cloth that settled itself jauntily around Erik’s shoulders.

Charles watched Erik be welcomed by the other Hufflepuffs in a flurry of shaken hands and warm smiles - but he was quite surprised when Erik turned back to him and waved.

He knew that it was his turn to blush as he raised his hand, tentatively, and waved back.

It was very nice of Erik to do that for him.

One after the other, the other First Years went to their tables, and at last Charles alone was left to face the Sorting Hat.

“Xavier, Charles Francis,” Hagrid said. “I know yeh. Brian’s boy.”

“Yes, that’s me,” Charles said, and he added, “Thank you, Hagrid,” before he sat down and put the Sorting Hat on.

No sooner had the Hat touched his head than it sang out, “And last but oh, not at all the least: RAVENCLAW!”

Charles leapt to his feet, and the Sorting Hat fell off his head, and he couldn’t stop grinning as Hagrid conjured up a blue-and-bronze scarf for him, so long that its tasseled ends stopped just short of his knees.

His father would be so proud, and the rest of the family would be _so_ enraged, and he honestly didn’t know which outcome he liked better - and that was why he couldn’t stop grinning as he finally ran toward the Ravenclaw table.

But on the way he stopped and grinned at Erik, reaching out to pull on a dangling end of his scarf. “That looks very nice on you.”

“And your scarf matches your eyes,” Erik said, as he got up and patted Charles’s shoulder. His hand was warm.

“Inter-House friendships later,” someone called jokingly from the Gryffindor table, “can we all just sit down and get this over with so we can _eat_?”

Charles looked at the girl with the flaming red hair, who was smirking at them in a sort of fond and also challenging way - and after a moment the pieces of the puzzle fell together for him, and he said in Erik’s direction, “Erik, I present Natasha Romanova of Gryffindor, the first person we’re pranking this year.”

More hooting and laughter, now, this time from all the tables that could hear them. 

“In your dreams, Charles Xavier,” Natasha laughed. “Don’t forget I’ve known you since you were in nappies, levitating off the ground every time you sneezed.”

Erik snorted with amusement and poked Charles in the side. “Did you really do that?”

Luckily, Charles was saved from having to reply because the next thing they heard was a woman’s voice, frail and powerful at the same time, calling the Great Hall to order: “May I have your attention, please?” 

Charles poked Erik back in the ribs, then pulled a horrible face at a grinning Natasha and laughed as he sat down.

The boy next to him pushed his glasses up higher on his nose and leaned in, looking quiet and kind and conspiratorial. In a quiet voice, he said, “I can tell you about Nat’s schedule, if you’re really looking to play a good prank on her.”

He couldn’t help but beam at him. “I’d appreciate the help. Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Charles Francis Xavier.” 

“Please don’t call me that, I’m just one year ahead of you. It’s the white hair, you see,” the older boy said, pointing to the silver strands clustered at his temples. “I’m Bruce Banner.”

Charles shook the hand that Bruce offered him, and then someone else from down the table shushed the two of them, because Headmistress Minerva McGonagall was sweeping the entire length of the room with undimmed, flinty-determined eyes. “We begin another year here at Hogwarts with words of welcome for all who have made their way here,” she said, her voice easily filling up the spaces, “whether it be their first time in these halls or a joyful return. I will not linger here overlong; I know that many of you are waiting for your dinner. I only wish you to remember one thing: Hogwarts is home and refuge and shelter, and we must all continue to make it so. Think of the school and think of your fellow students, before you think of your Houses. I bid the First Years welcome - and now let the feast begin!”

She waved her wand and the candles flared overhead, bathing everyone in bright light.

Charles clapped his hands as the Headmistress rejoined the other teachers - and then the bare table before him was suddenly full, and there were several cheers from here and there in the hall as students reached eagerly for plates and knives and forks.

Such a feast Charles had only heard about, but had never been invited to before: all kinds of roasts, and all kinds of accompaniments. There was a huge wooden bowl next to Bruce’s elbow, from which he was scooping an enormous portion onto his plate: pears, pumpkin seeds, salad greens, and crumbly cheese. 

He took a portion, as well, when Bruce offered him the bowl; the greens made a precarious heap next to the roast chicken and the sausages he’d already managed to put on his plate. He was eyeing the baking dish next to the nearest gravy boat when someone tapped him on the shoulder, making him blink and look around.

“Could you pass that, please?” the girl said, pointing to the baking dish. Her dark-brown hair was twisted up around a battered yellow pencil with a worn-down eraser.

“Certainly,” Charles said. “Only, what is it I’m handing you, exactly?”

“Wild rice, leek, and mushroom stuffing,” she said. “It’s my favorite. But you should have some, so you know what it tastes like.”

“Thank you,” Charles said, dipping the serving spoon into the dish and then putting it back before passing it to her. “Enjoy your dinner.”

Bruce started to laugh as he ran a piece of steak around his plate. “Please excuse Jane,” he said in Charles’s general direction. “She does tend to get distracted by her books.”

Charles peered at her again, and sure enough, she was eating the stuffing one-handed. Her eyes were focused on a tattered book that looked like it had just had all the dust hastily swiped off. It made him smile - and then laugh, because someone else tried to grab the dish from her and she fended them off with a sharp slap from her fork.

“I like her,” Charles said, burying his grin in his goblet of orange juice.

“And I think she might like you, too, just as soon as she finishes her book.”

“I know what that’s like.”

Bruce laughed and asked Charles to pass him another roll.

Just when Charles thought he couldn’t eat another bite, the mostly empty dishes faded from the table - only to be replaced by a dazzling array of puddings. There were cakes and trifles and mousses and great heaps of apples and oranges and pears, and someone across from Bruce waved his wand at the nearest dish of ice-cream and conjured up a half-dozen sparklers, filling the air with multicolored sparks and smoke.

“I want to learn how to do that,” said an unexpected voice at Charles’s shoulder - he looked up, and Erik was standing next to him, watching the light-show with a transfixed expression.

“I’ll look it up for you,” Charles offered.

“Okay. We can study it together. And also, here,” Erik said, blinking and offering Charles another smile, plus a handful of chocolate bonbons. “D’you think I’d be allowed to sit here - ?”

But Bruce had taken just one look at him and was already scooting over. “Sit, sit,” he said, shrugging benevolently. “I’m supposed to go and visit Emma at the Slytherin table anyway, so you sit down and help Charles with his sweets. I’m Bruce. Welcome to Ravenclaw, Charles’s friend.”

“Thank you, Charles’s other friend,” Erik said.

“His name is Bruce,” Charles said, and he wanted to scold and he wanted to tease so he just laughed in Erik’s face instead, and that was all right because Erik was grinning and looking speculatively at the several bowls and plates within arm’s length.

“Try this one, Erik,” a friendly voice said, and Charles looked up at the blonde boy who was standing over him and Erik. Bright blue eyes; a guileless expression. He was wearing a yellow-and-black scarf that was identical to Erik’s. The pan in his hands smelled _wonderful_. 

“Charles, this is Steve,” Erik said as he took the dish and put it down next to their plates. 

“Pleased to meet you, Charles,” Steve said. “Enjoy the brownies.”

Charles watched Erik cut thick wedges of oozing dark chocolate and nuts and snow-white sugar, and couldn’t help but lick his lips in appreciation - but the moment they had their own portions he pushed the pan back in Erik’s direction. “We shouldn’t be eating the whole thing - we should give it back to your table, or offer it to others, or - ”

“Or Hagrid,” Erik suggested. “Does he like chocolate?”

“I think most wizards do,” Charles said, cramming a bite of brownie into his mouth and taking in a deep breath of rich spices as he did so. “That tastes so wonderful. Let’s give him some.”

“Okay,” Erik said, and between them they carried the pan up to the Professors’ table. Hagrid took up one end all on his own, and seemed to be having a lively discussion with the sharp-nosed lady on his right - until she cleared her throat and patted his huge arm.

“I believe you’ve visitors, Professor,” she said, looking amused.

“I - wha - oh, it’s you,” Hagrid said, and even though he was speaking quietly Charles could still feel the stones beneath his feet rumble at the sound of that voice. “What can I do for yeh, boys?”

Charles shook his head. “Nothing, sir.”

“We came here to offer you some brownies, sir,” Erik said, “from the Hufflepuff table.”

Hagrid smiled, and his eyes seemed to disappear into the many lines and wrinkles of his cheerful face. “Well, thank you very much. D’you happen to know who made them? I’ll want to have a word with them, too.”

“I don’t know who made them, sir, but you can try asking Steve. He gave these to us.”

“Steve’s nice,” Charles added.

“Rogers is good people, and so are the both of yeh,” Hagrid said, strands of his bushy beard waving up and down as he nodded at them. “Now, shake hands, and go on back to your tables. Time to get on to your common rooms.”

Charles smiled, and offered Hagrid a hand to shake, and he couldn’t shush Erik when he started laughing, because he was grinning over how small his own hand looked in Hagrid’s.

After Erik shook Hagrid’s hand they joined the ends of the lines snaking out of the Great Hall - Charles kept an eye out for the girl who was calling “Ravenclaw First Years please follow me!”, and gave Erik a friendly pat on the arm. “I hope we have classes together,” he said. “It’ll be nice to study with you.”

“Yes, I think I’d like that very much,” Erik said. “I will see you at breakfast, Charles.”

“Good night, Erik, see you at breakfast!”

Charles followed the line of blue scarves winding up one of the long staircases, and kept watching as Erik followed the rest of the Hufflepuffs down one of the corridors leading away from the Great Hall, and began to think of the stories he’d tell. His owl, Sasha, would hear about them, first, and then he’d write them down in a letter, for his father.

***

The response from West Chester Hame arrived about a week and a half later, to great consternation at the Ravenclaw breakfast table: Charles looked up sharply when he heard Sasha’s call, and he leapt up onto his seat to wave at her.

But she rushed past him, hooting excitedly, and landed with a neat rush of back-sweeping wings next to the mask-and-mantle black-and-white cat who was sitting just a few inches away from Erik’s right foot. After a moment, Sasha hooted, shivered all over, and then - Charles covered his mouth with his hand, wondering why he was still surprised when she fearlessly poked the unmoving mass of cat with one mottled wing.

He was still unable to get over his surprise at the fact that Erik’s cat didn’t mind Sasha at all, aside from a token paw-swipe here and there (though apparently Heydrich - that was the name of the cat - couldn’t be bothered this morning).

“Call your owl off, Charles,” Emma Frost laughed as she passed another battered black-leather-bound book to Natasha, who was sitting at the Ravenclaw table with Jane. “Before we practice our Scouring Charms on the blood on the stones.”

Charles made a face at her. “If you didn’t notice, Sasha’s holding up my mail, which I really want to read, because I can see my father’s handwriting and I’ve been waiting for this one.”

Erik rolled his eyes at the whole lot of them - which included Bruce and Steve passing a quill back and forth and muttering over a sheet of parchment, completely oblivious - and whistled at Sasha. “Off you go before Charles wrings your neck because he’s dying to read his letter.”

“I would never - ” Charles began, and he never got to finish the sentence, because Sasha landed on his shoulder and promptly cuffed him with her wing before settling. “Don’t listen to Erik,” he said, half-teasing, in her direction, before offering her some orange juice.

The letter he took from her, tied securely to one leg with a length of sturdy black ribbon, looked a little battered and creased. He smoothed it out, took a bite of his toast, and began to read: 

_To Charles - Son, I apologize for the lateness of this letter. The Ministry have got me hopping up and down Suffolk, looking for things I can’t talk about here or they’ll set Arthur Weasley on me, and while I particularly enjoy his and Molly’s company - he says we’re to come round for dinner during the holidays, we can’t miss that - I don’t quite care to clean out his garage, so I will have to keep a few secrets for now._

_I’m particularly pleased that you’ve carried on the tradition that your dear old dad started when he was at Hogwarts - but I’m sure you knew that already. (Give Professor Sprout my regards, please. I may still have dirt under my fingernails that rightfully belongs in one of her greenhouses.) You can be sure I announced ever so proudly to everyone that my son got into Ravenclaw - and you can be equally sure that there was much grumbling from the rest of the family. I spent a few nights collecting some particularly choice insults about your parentage - I’ll tell you all about them when next we meet - Yours in haste and with great love, B_

Charles stopped reading and looked up when there was a hand laid on his shoulder: it was Erik, who looked concerned, if a thundercloud could be said to look concerned. His brows were drawn together in a thick, almost-straight line. “Charles?”

“Erik,” Charles said, guessing what the question would be and smiling at his friend. “I want to be perfectly clear about this, all right: I’m _pleased_ my family’s unhappy about me going into Ravenclaw. And my father is not joking about being proud of me. It’s a silly thing that happens in the Wizarding World, you see: family traditions. Maybe because there aren’t a lot of us?”

“I don’t understand.”

Charles sighed. “Every member of the Xavier family who has ever been to Hogwarts has been Sorted into Slytherin, and they were quite, _quite_ proud of the distinction. Every member, that is, except for my father. He became a Hufflepuff, or asked to be, I’ve never quite understood the details. That event caused most of his family to almost disown him. They pinned their hopes on me, instead, wanting me to restore whatever kind of tradition they believed in - and now it turns out I’ve disappointed them too. It’s a problem, for them: me being Sorted into the House where I am most suited, and not the one that they all wanted.” He stopped, thought for a moment, and then added, “I am definitely not saying that there’s anything bad about being Sorted into Slytherin.” He glanced at Emma, who was sitting still as Jane rebraided her hair into an intricate knot. “I mean it, Emma.”

“I know you do,” Emma said, flapping a careless hand in his direction, while trying to keep her shoulders still. “Slytherin is the place to be if you’re cunning and subtle and graceful and deadly smart, like me,” she said, to amused huffs of agreement from Bruce and Natasha and, funnily, Steve. “And you’re only one of those things, Charles.”

Charles laughed and nudged Erik in the side. “Pretty much.”

“That’s not ‘only’,” Erik began to say, but he was starting to unfrown. 

Whatever else there was that he wanted to say, though, he didn’t get the chance, because at that moment a bell began to toll overhead - a long series of echoing notes that vibrated right through Charles’s bones.

Sasha took off, hooting, presumably for the rookery, and Heydrich collected himself and shivered all over, nosed at Erik’s shoes before getting up and moving off as well. 

Students all around began to shuffle rapidly out of the Great Hall, trailing ink bottles and battered quills and scraps of parchment, and not a few candy wrappers. “Leftovers from the Honeydukes Express,” Charles said as he picked a bit of shiny purple foil up and chucked it into the nearest bin. “That reminds me, I might still have a few Chocolate Frogs left over from when I got here. I told you about the box, right?”

“Yeah, you did. Can I have one?” Erik said, looking up from the contents of his bag. They were heading downstairs to Potions class, and the other first-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were chattering about homework and books and the upcoming Quidditch tryouts.

“You can have the rest of them, I can bring them to you later,” Charles offered. “We can eat them while we do our homework, and after we can look for other people to trade cards with....”

Erik nodded, and they entered the classroom just behind all of the rest, and took their usual table: four rows back, snugged up next to the displays of pickled animals and parts of animals and whatever. 

The Potions professor turned up right after and beamed at them as she set them to work on a basic Sleeping Draught, and then she sat down at her table and watched over the class, over their whispers and frowns of concentration. She was small and sprightly and silver-haired, with her face crisscrossed by seams and smiles. 

“Stir three times clockwise and then leave to simmer for five minutes,” Erik said, eventually, reading the last line of instructions.

“Stir three times, got it,” Charles said, “two, three, done. Do I take the rod out?” 

“Yes.” 

After five minutes the potion turned almost clear, with a hint of blue around the edges, and Charles smiled to himself, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done.

“Have you done it, boys?” their Professor suddenly asked, appearing right at Erik’s elbow.

“I think we have, Professor Pipette,” Erik said, blinking hard. He still seemed a little surprised by these sudden comings and goings.

“Then one of you must test it.”

Charles reached for a ladle and a small phial, and poured a generous portion into it.

He was holding the potion up to the light when Erik reached out for him: one hand on his wrist, the other supporting the bottom of the bottle. “I’ll take it,” he said. “Give that to me.”

“But I always test my potions on myself,” Charles protested, mildly. “It’s safer that way.”

“It’s all right. I trust you. I’ll test this one.”

Charles squinted at him and then made a face, and when neither of those worked, he reluctantly let go of the phial.

Erik toasted him with it and then downed the whole thing in one swallow.

Charles held his breath.

Erik closed his eyes, swayed briefly on his feet.

Then he let out a quiet snore and made as if to fall down - and Professor Pipette beamed, pushed an extra stool into place to catch him, and said, “If he wakes up in five minutes, then it’ll be full marks for the two of you, and a point apiece to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.”

Charles divided his nervous, skittering attention between the clock that was ticking serenely over the chalkboard, and Erik, who slept with a deep furrow still in place between his eyebrows and a death grip on the little glass bottle.

“Five minutes - two, three,” Charles said as the seconds ticked away, starting to wring his hands.

At “four”, Erik huffed out a soft breath and fell into waking as easily as he’d fallen asleep. “I’m okay, Charles,” was the first thing he said, around a huge yawn that seemed as if it would crack his jaw into several pieces.

Charles looked him over, anxiously: he peered into Erik’s eyes, checked his pulse.

“He’s fine,” the Professor said, when she swept back to them after issuing gentle corrections to two Hufflepuff girls three tables over. “Woke up in five minutes and how many seconds?”

Charles knew better than to ask her how she knew they’d gone a little over. “And four seconds, Professor.”

She smiled, and gestured at the blackboard, and a piece of chalk skittered over the smooth surface, writing: _Xavier & Lehnsherr, 5m 4s_. “That’s a good result, I say, for first-time brewers - I’ve had students wake up from the same dose after more than an hour, and with a little scrambling in the brain to boot. Means you followed instructions better than they did. You’ll still get your full marks and your House points. Now clean up,” she said, beaming and patting Erik’s shoulder before moving off.

Charles sat down hard on his half of the bench, and tried to control the shaking of his hands. “I can’t believe you drank that,” he said, watching as Erik emptied the cauldron and put the burner away before clearing the rest of the desk. “It’d have been a mess if something had gone wrong, if we’d made a mistake with the potion.... I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Erik sat down next to him after a moment, and he let Erik crowd him a little, because it was cold in the Potions classroom and Erik tended to throw off a lot of warmth. “I’d have been all right. The Professor knows how to make antidotes, and there’s the Hospital Wing and Madam Pomfrey upstairs, right?”

“...Right.”

“Besides, we were brewing the potion together. I read the instructions, and you asked questions that I didn’t think about, like whether we had to leave the stirring stick in or take it out or something. It’s good you did that, and I think I get why we have to pay attention to the little things in Potions.”

It didn’t really make Charles feel better, and he fidgeted with one of his quills, unaware that there was still a little ink left in the nib until he started to leave dark streaks on the backs of his hands.

Erik nudged him, then, and he stopped. “Okay. Next time I’ll do the brewing and you do the testing. Fair?”

“Not good enough,” Charles said. “We’ll trade off. Whoever’s not brewing the potion tests it, every time. No exceptions.”

“Okay, we’ll do that.” Erik grinned and started packing his books away.

Once or twice Charles caught him looking at their names on the board, and laughing softly to himself.

***

“Anyone have a mirror?” Charles asked a few weeks later, as he joined the usual knot of multicolored scarves in the center of the Great Hall. “I’m pretty sure there’re - _things_ \- growing on my tongue.”

“And I told you there aren’t any, stop being such a baby,” Erik said, and while he was wearing an annoyed expression he also looked like he was about to fall over laughing.

“Please go and jump in the Black Lake,” Charles muttered, rebelliously, and then he tacked on a hasty “Thank you” when Jane handed him a battered compact. He stuck out his tongue and examined it carefully in the mirror, and made faces at everyone else because they were snickering at him. “You weren’t there when Erik made that - thing. I’m not even sure it was a potion from the book at all.”

“What potion is this?” Steve asked. 

“Wiggenweld,” Erik said. “For something that’s supposed to heal you, it sure tastes like everything died in your mouth.”

There were several groans and shudders at the table, which only seemed to make Erik slap his hand over his mouth to keep in the laughter. Bruce tossed a wad of parchment at his head, and Natasha said, icily, “Thank you so much for that very charming mental image, Erik.”

Erik chortled. “You’re welcome.”

Charles rummaged in his pockets, but kept coming up empty. “Ugh. Bad time to run out of Stringmints - ”

“You can have mine,” Jane said, holding one hand out with a silver-cardboard box, and the other for her compact. “You look like you need them more than I do.”

“Thank you.” Charles tore into the box and quickly sucked in a fresh, minty breath, then made a face at Erik. “Just for that I’m going to hope the next one tastes _terrible_.”

“All talk, Xavier,” Erik said, and made the face back. “Do your worst.” 

“Now, now, lay off, boys,” a new voice said, squeaky but shot through with authority, and the group fell still as Professor Flitwick strode briskly up to their benches. “And I’d like to have your attention, please? Hello, Charles, Bruce, Jane.”

Charles hastily chewed and swallowed his candy and grinned at his Head of House. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said, together with the others.

“I’m glad to see that this wonderful and diverse group of yours is still going strong,” the Professor said. “And it certainly makes it easier to spread a little news throughout the school. Mister Rogers, Miss Frost, Miss Romanova, I wish to enlist your help in this.”

Steve nodded and put his hands in his pockets. “What news, Professor?”

A small smile appeared on Flitwick’s face, briefly there and gone. “Hogwarts is to host a - shall we say - Parents’ Night, I believe it was called in the Staff Room when we went to convene with Headmistress McGonagall.”

“Parents’ Night,” Emma said, sounding it out carefully. “I’ve heard about it, out in the Muggle world. You would like our parents to come and visit the school?”

“Right in one, Miss Frost, thank you,” Flitwick said, beaming. “In your case it would be an opportunity for your parents to wander the grounds they know well, yes?”

She laughed softly, and nodded.

Steve cleared his throat. “Professor, are you speaking about those of us who come from Muggle families, too?”

“I am _especially_ speaking about the students from Muggle families, if they are interested and if they can make it,” was the response from the Professor. “We have perhaps made a mistake in the past by staying overly secluded. After the dark times, after the terrible years, it seems that we must find a way to better look to the future. We would not want the families to be left out of the changes that this school must necessarily work upon those who live in it.”

“This’ll be interesting,” Natasha said, after a moment.

Flitwick actually chuckled at that. “I quite hope so, Miss Romanova. May I rely on you and your group to help spread the word of this event? We Heads of Houses will of course make more formal announcements as soon as we can deal with all of the arrangements that will need looking after - ”

Charles found himself nodding, even as he edged around to stand next to Erik; as soon as the Professor left, he tugged on Erik’s sleeve to pull him away from the others. “I’m sure my father will come, if I ask him. You _must_ ask your parents to come.”

Erik grinned. “They wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

***

“We don’t want Muggles here, and we don’t want their families either!”

A harsh voice, cutting through the swift cool breezes of a late-autumn day. Harsh words to cast a pall over the pale sunlight that could not be warm and welcoming.

Charles just about dropped the book he was reading in shock.

Fear snatched at him, sank its claws into him.

Two weeks had passed since Professor Flitwick had mentioned the plans for Parents’ Night, and ever since the official announcements had come out, hardly a day had gone by without anyone talking about the idea, or debating the right of it.

Charles listened attentively to the chatter in his own House, and he could understand why some of the older students seemed to be determined to stay neutral on the matter. He’d been there when Jane had gotten into an overly polite argument with one of the seventh-year boys: they’d come dangerously close to a challenge for a duel, but cooler heads (mostly Bruce) had prevailed.

The boy had made a case for those who were still recovering from the turmoil of the past few years; Jane had countered with sentiments that seemed to echo what their Head of House had initially mentioned. “What better way,” she’d said, “to enhance that recovery?”

“And if there are still some who cannot overcome the old prejudices? We agree that these prejudices have no place in Hogwarts, but how can we ensure the safety of all, when we are still fighting to bring back some semblance of order to our society?”

Logic had been involved, up in Ravenclaw Tower: logic and a reasonable dose of passionate wit, and in the end Jane and the boy had agreed to disagree, both sides looking extremely thoughtful (and red in the face from all the exertion).

Down here was different, because there had been nothing but anger in the voice that had shouted - and Charles knew anger, had heard it and felt its terrible strength.

How he wished Erik was here - and then he remembered that Erik wouldn’t be out here for another ten minutes; he was working on something with the rest of his House. There was no sign of the others, either.

He was alone.

He was afraid, but he wanted to be heard.

Courage, he needed courage - so he thought about his father’s easy smile and the way he waved his wand to cast a powerful charm, before getting to his feet. He squared his shoulders and rolled up his sleeves, dropped his book on top of his discarded black robes.

The voice went on, loud and _wrong_ : “Hogwarts is for people who know magic!”

Charles headed down the steps, passing several other First Years, who looked nervous even as they shook their heads, as they tried to edge away from the boy who was shouting, who was wearing a red t-shirt. 

He wanted to look over his shoulder, wanted to draw some kind of reassurance from the sight of Ravenclaw Tower soaring into the sky, but he forced himself to keep moving forward, forced himself to keep watching the boy who was now saying, “Wizards and witches look out for each other, not for the Muggles!”

“And who do you think gave birth to wizards and witches,” Charles asked, suddenly, when he was within calling distance.

“Wizarding families, of course,” was the response from the boy.

Charles’s throat went dry as he watched the boy’s face begin to turn dark with anger. “Were there wizarding families in the beginning?”

“Yes!”

“No,” Charles said. “Would you say that Merlin came from a wizarding family?”

“Yes he did!” 

“No, he did not. I’ve looked it up, you know. The books don’t say anything about his mum and dad, but given that there weren’t a lot of witches and wizards at that time I think it’s safer to think that he came from a Muggle family.”

The boy sputtered and drew his wand. “Books! What use are books? Merlin was a great wizard, one of the best, and to be that strong, you had to have come from a wizarding family!”

“I would like to see you say that to Hermione Granger,” Charles said, and though he was sweating profusely now, he still made himself smile. “Her parents are 100% Muggle, and everyone says she’s the best witch of her generation, and she’ll certainly give anyone here right now a run for their money, except for the Professors. And incidentally, nice job saying that Squibs aren’t supposed to exist.”

“I hate Squibs,” the boy growled. 

“As you hate everyone, it seems.”

“Why are you standing up for them, anyway, are you one of them or something?” 

Charles shook his head. “My last name is Xavier, and I am part of a wizarding family.”

There was a pause, and one of the boy’s friends whispered to him - and then he sneered, as loudly as Charles had ever seen anyone do it. “Xavier? I’ve heard about you. You and your lunatic father. Family full of Slytherins, all of them good people, and then he went to Hufflepuff and you to Ravenclaw. Both of you, disowned! So you’re nothing!”

Charles drew his wand, and thought about wanting to shout when he cast the first spell, though it was quite illogical to assume that shouting would make any difference. Yes, it would make him feel better, but that had no bearing on the outcome of a wizarding duel, either.

“Oh, so the ickle Ravenclaw wants a fight? I wonder what you know,” the boy laughed, and then with an almost casual flick of his wrist he sent the first jinx headed Charles’s way. “ _Stupefy!_ ”

As soon as the other boy started his charm Charles swallowed, and went cold, and whispered “ _Expelliarmus._ ”

A flash of scarlet light exploded from Charles’s wand, intense, but brief. It didn’t even manage to reach his opponent, though he could see the breeze from its passing riffle at those red sleeves.

When his sight cleared, the boy’s Stunner was still heading right for him - he braced himself for impact, for the fall, for waking up under Madam Pomfrey’s stern eyes - 

“ _Protego!_ ” someone called, and there was a swift rush of air around Charles, followed by a blue light that shimmered between him and his opponent, hanging like a heat haze. 

The Stunner hit the shield and didn’t even shake it, dissipating into harmless sparks.

People stepped up on either side of Charles, the fading sunlight bright on red hair and on brown.

“Charles!”

And that was a familiar voice, coming closer, and he turned around just in time to see Erik join Steve, Natasha, and Jane, the four of them looking protective and worried.

“What’s going on here?” someone called from the direction of the lake, making Charles whip back around. That voice became distinctly colder as the speaker became visible: it was Emma, still wearing the heavy gloves and padding of her Quidditch gear. “A Gryffindor picking on a Ravenclaw? Now that’s a sight I never want to see again.”

She stopped exactly halfway between the angry boy and Charles, and when she came to a stop she still looked like a powerful storm on the move, like lightning and fierce sweeping winds. “Who wants to start explaining himself here?”

“I’m sorry, Emma,” Charles said, looking at his feet. “I reacted to his statements. They were - he was - well, he was going on about how Parents’ Night was a bad idea, and I felt like I had to argue with him.”

Emma raised an eyebrow at him, then turned to the boy, whose hands were in fists. “Want to tell me what your problem with Parents’ Night is?”

“I don’t like Muggles, they shouldn’t be here and their parents shouldn’t be coming.”

“Oh, really? On what basis?”

The boy began muttering at his cronies, but no one actually answered Emma’s question. Charles watched her turn back in his direction. “And you, what do you think about people who don’t like Muggle-born wizards and witches and their families?”

Charles looked at Erik.

Erik nodded at him and mouthed, “You can do it.”

He sighed, met Emma’s gaze, and said, “If that boy wants to hate Muggles and Muggle-born wizards and witches, that is what he chooses to believe, and we can’t stop him - but it is our duty to act if those kinds of thoughts become actually dangerous. However, we cannot predict when - if - that will happen. We cannot impose ideas of right and wrong - only work with those ideas, if we should find ourselves in peril.”

“Well said,” Jane said quietly, and Charles wished he could smile.

“Good one, Charles,” Erik said.

“I’m inclined to believe you,” Emma said after a moment. “But I don’t get to judge something like this; no one here has that authority. Straight to the Headmistress we all go. She’ll know about ideas of right and wrong.”

***

_To Brian Xavier - Father, Headmistress McGonagall has asked me to tell you that your presence on Parents’ Night is strongly encouraged. I really think she wants you to be here, and she might actually take points from Ravenclaw if you don’t -_

Charles paused, underlined “strongly” three times, and kept going. It was going to be his second letter to his father in three days.

_Professor Flitwick has set me a ton of extra practice with the Disarming Charm, after my poor showing against that other boy. It is not easy, and I’m trying to remember everything you’ve told me about wand form. Good thing I have several friends to practice with. Erik, the friend I told you about in my previous letters, is already quite an expert at it. I need to work hard in order to catch up with him._

“Charles.” Just then Erik slid back into the seat opposite his, followed by a very put-upon-looking Heydrich - but as soon as Charles took a good look at the cat he could sort of see what its problem was. There was a small box hanging from its collar, such as when Erik’s parents sent him things from home.

Except that this time the cat jumped onto the tabletop, sniffed at Erik’s hands, and then turned around and stalked right towards Charles, who had to move his parchment and ink bottle out of the way in a hurry.

The box that Heydrich was carrying was marked _To Master Charles F Xavier from Edie and Jakob Lehnsherr._

“I - Erik?” Charles asked. “What’s going on?”

“I told them what happened,” Erik said, looking pleased with himself. “Mama and Papa want to show their appreciation.”

“I hardly did anything - ”

“You did something important,” Erik said. “Something good. They understand that, and so do I. So they sent you something that I’m betting you’ve never had before, because even in Muggle London they’re pretty hard to find.”

Charles wanted to protest, but Heydrich pawed at him, looking like he’d bite if he had to prod any further, so Charles gave in and untied the box from his collar.

Inside the box were a few packages of multicolored candy; Charles tore into one of them and out fell several mouse-shapes in strange colors. “Jelly mice?”

“Try one,” Erik invited.

There was something strange and lopsided about Erik’s grin, but Charles couldn’t quite tell what it was, so he settled for raising an eyebrow at him before swallowing hard and popping the blue mouse into his mouth.

A few seconds of chewing, the soft grit of fine sugar dissolving on his tongue, and then - an explosion of _sour_ \- Charles clapped a hand over his mouth and knew he was pulling the most terrible faces, enough for a Slytherin nearby to point him out to her mates and start snickering.

He wished he could laugh, too, but he was too busy being torn between surprised and wincing and trying to finish off the candy.

Erik was under no such compunctions and was pounding a fist on the table, laughing until he was very nearly breathless. “Your _face_ \- ” He had Heydrich under his other arm; the cat didn’t seem to mind how his master was heaving and shaking.

Charles hurriedly reached for a glass of water and drained it before picking up a quill and pointing it at Erik. “You - you - ”

And then the sheer weirdness of it hit home and he started to giggle, then he let it out in a full-throated roar of laughter. He couldn’t speak for a few moments because he was all but rolling around, but in the end, he recovered somehow and said, very solemnly, “Please thank your parents for me. It was very, very kind of them to send something like that.”

“You can thank them yourself,” Erik said. “They’ll be here on Parents’ Night.”

Charles perked up. “I’m glad that they’ll be able to make it!”

Erik nodded. “No one could stop them from coming here. I’ll protect them, and so will the rest of my House.”

“And so will I,” Charles said. 

“I know.” A pause, then: “Is your father coming?”

“I’ve been telling him to come,” Charles said, frowning a little as he slid his half-begun letter over. “I just hope he’s got the last letter, and that he’ll get this one.”

“I can’t believe McGonagall said she might take away points from you.”

Charles twitched. “I really hope she was just joking, but you know, I couldn’t tell from the look on her face. She was ever so serious when she offered me tea, too.”

***

“Bruce?”

As late afternoons went in the Ravenclaw Common Room this was a pretty quiet one, even though everyone seemed to be busy - getting ready for something that had nothing to do with marks or tests.

Charles picked his way past three girls who were intently discussing charms for putting their hair up, and went over to Bruce’s corner, next to one of the roaring fireplaces. There was a stack of books on the floor next to Bruce’s feet, and a tall vacuum flask of tea. “Hello, Charles,” Bruce said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Do you know any better charms for mending clothes?” Charles showed him his fraying sleeves. 

“You should learn how to take better care of your things,” Bruce said, half mocking and half mild - but he waved his wand in Charles’s direction, murmured a few words, and the sleeves mended themselves, threads snaking and weaving back together into a smooth seamless black. 

“Or I could learn the cleaning and sewing charms a year or two ahead of schedule,” Charles said, sticking his tongue out.

“Or you could,” Bruce agreed. “If we have time, I’ll put a group together. Ask the Hufflepuffs for things from their rag bags, and invite Erik.”

“He always has nice clothes,” Charles muttered as he fussed with his collar. “Like someone sews them up for him, keeps him all neat.”

“Yes, I noticed that too. His mother, perhaps?”

“Her name is Edie. I’m going to meet her tonight.”

“Ah, is that why you’re worried about your appearance?”

Charles stuck his tongue out at Bruce. “It’s good manners, you know that.”

“Whatever you say, Charles.”

Charles rolled his eyes and hurried out with the others: but first he made a detour to the rookery, and he stood in the doorway and called softly: “Sasha? Come, Sasha, it’s time to go downstairs.”

A swift rush of hundreds of wings beating. Charles waited, patiently, for the unmistakable soft cry of his companion. Sasha swept in on him, and he stood his ground, smiling fondly as she winged in for a perfect landing on his proffered arm.

“There you are, gorgeous,” he said, to an approving hoot. “Father’s here, waiting to see us.”

This time when Charles entered the Great Hall he was already more than familiar with the candles suspended serenely overhead, with the perfect reflection of a clear autumn night, with the flowers and garlands hanging from the walls, lending a sweetly festive air to the clean tables and the smiling faces.

And there were quite a lot of those: mothers and fathers and friends, siblings and visitors. Faces full of wonder, and he was hard-pressed to tell those who were coming back from those who were coming here for the very first time. He couldn’t help smiling. 

Here was Jane with her arm around a girl with dark-rimmed spectacles and an outrageously pink hat; here was Natasha with two male companions, one a benevolent-faced man in a tailored dark-blue suit and the other a boy of her own age, who kept glancing away to stare at the candles.

He waved at Emma, who looked up from a huddle of gossip that contained her two older sisters to wave back - and then someone was calling his name. 

“Charles!”

He grinned and hurried over to where Steve was standing. “I wanted you to meet my mother and my best friend,” Steve said, red-faced and rushing over his words. “Mom, Bucky, this is Charles Francis Xavier of Ravenclaw House.”

“I’m Sarah,” the woman said, and there were lines around her face that made Charles think of many, many years of hard work and sweet smiles. Her hand, too, was strong and warm and shapely around his. “And Steve has told us about the brave thing that you did. I wanted you to know that it was very, very kind of you. Thank you, Charles.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Charles said, knowing that he was blushing furiously.

“Hope we can help you out,” the other boy said as he shook Charles’s hand next. “If you need us, we’ll be here for you.”

“Bucky’s right,” Steve said. “Any time you need us, Charles.”

“Thank you,” Charles said.

He wanted to stay and spend a few more moments with them, but there was a shout that cut easily through the hubbub, a shout that startled Charles and made him laugh and say, “Excuse me” - and he spun around, eyes quickly meeting those of his father’s.

“There you are, Charles!” Brian Xavier called, standing between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables.

“Father!” Charles took off running, and Sasha took flight, and when he collided with his father he hung on with all of his might.

“I’ve missed you, son,” Brian said, and he sounded like he was trying not to cry. “My good, brave boy. I am ever so proud of you.”

Charles nodded, felt a tear streak down his own cheek, kept holding on. His father’s hand was warm and large on top of his head.

Sasha called, once, and Brian stepped back, just a little: just enough to hold Charles at arm’s-length. “Look at you, all red in the face and happy. Hogwarts life agrees with you, and I am very glad for it.”

“And you look like you’ve had all kinds of adventures,” Charles said. “Am I going to get to hear about them?”

“Of course.”

Charles grinned and rummaged in his pockets, and offered his father a package of jelly mice. “I’d be careful eating those if I were you,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “They’re very, very sour.”

Brian laughed. “I take it you weren’t given any such fair warning, when you ate them.”

“It was a trick,” Charles admitted. “My friend got me.”

“I’d like to meet this friend of yours, if he’s the one you’ve been writing to me about.”

“He is, and I’m wondering where he is, actually.” A moment’s thought, and then Charles looked up at Sasha. “I couldn’t ask you to go and find Heydrich?”

She circled once, and started to fly around the Great Hall, and then dropped into a quick, neat dive just at the massive doors.

“Sasha - likes other people now?” Brian asked, looking perplexed. “I remember she looked at _me_ funny when I made you breakfast last time. And I’m the one who bought her.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Charles said, stifling a laugh as he led his father over. “Sasha likes Heydrich, and Heydrich is not a person.”

“What is Heydrich exactly - ? Oh.”

Charles started laughing, then, leaning on his father for support and laughing at his gobsmacked face at the same time, because Heydrich was sitting on the floor in a shiny new collar and Sasha was more or less perched right on top of his head, and a sprightly-looking woman with silver hair bound up in a neat bun was taking photos of the two of them.

There was something about her hands around the black bulk of the camera that seemed familiar to Charles.

“I want extra copies, Mama, when you’ve had them printed,” an equally familiar voice said, and Charles hurried forward to take the extra goblets from Erik’s hands. “Charles! I’ve been looking for you.”

“Hello, Erik,” Charles said. “And we’ve been looking for you, too. Hence Sasha on Heydrich’s head.” 

“It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” the woman with the camera said, who aimed the lens briefly at Charles and his father before holding out her hand to shake. “I’m Edie Lehnsherr, Erik’s mother, and this is my husband Jakob.”

“Hello, Edie; hello, Jakob. It’s truly nice to meet you,” Brian said. “My name is Brian Xavier. I was Sorted into Hufflepuff House when I was a student here.”

“Same House as Erik,” Jakob said, pale and mousy-haired and noble-looking. “Pleased to meet you. And you must be Charles. We have heard interesting things about you. May we sit with you, and speak with you and your father?”

“Of course, sir,” Charles said, trying to return courtesy for courtesy. “And I would also like to say thank you for the candy, the jelly mice.”

“You’re welcome,” Edie said, warmly.

***

“Part of this letter’s for you,” Erik said, a few days later. It was Saturday and it was overcast, so they were walking around the shore of the lake, and he was carrying an oversized umbrella.

“My father wants to see you for Christmas, if that’ll be possible,” Charles replied. “He spent a few minutes talking to your dad about it.”

“I heard, yeah,” Erik said. “I have to spend a week and a half with them at home, and to visit my grandparents, but after that we can certainly come back down to London, or something.”

“Okay,” Charles said with a smile, and he exchanged the textbook in his hand for the letter in Erik’s, and while Erik read about Mending Charms and tried to puzzle out Bruce’s annotations, Charles turned his attention to Edie’s long-looped script:

 _To Charles: It made us quite happy to meet Erik’s friends from school, and you most of all. I know my son can be a handful, and that he can be stubborn - he takes after both of us, you see, and you will want to store up as much patience as you can when it comes to him. I hope you will not mind if, from time to time, Jakob and I inquire about you when we write to our son._

_Please convey our thanks to your father for his invitation. We will certainly take him up on it._

_You will have heard this from others, but we also wanted to thank you for speaking up, because you wanted to speak about what you believed was right. Others come to this kind of conviction late in life, when time and life itself run short. You have all ahead of you, and we wish you the strength you’ll need to keep your convictions._

“Your mother’s amazing,” Charles said, a little wistfully, after he’d read the message for him a third time, and returned the letter to Erik. 

“My mother always is,” Erik said, a loyal glint in his eyes. “I like her very much. She taught me a lot of things I know. I just hope I won’t forget them while I’m here.”

“You’ll be fine,” Charles said. “I believe in you.”

Erik stopped, and Charles stopped next to him. Now they could see Hogwarts Castle brooding over the lake, and they could see the spires and towers of its reflection reaching for them, on the water that was being driven by a strengthening breeze.

“I’m glad I met you,” Erik said, after a moment. “You were very kind to me on the night of the Welcoming Feast, when I was scared because of everything new and strange.”

“I was afraid, then, too,” Charles said. “I wanted to be not-afraid. And you were there, and you talked to me. So I could be myself.”

“Me too.”

“And we’ve six more years after this one.”

“We’re going to wind up trying to kill each other at some point, maybe.” Erik grinned, making Charles roll his eyes. “I mean, there’s Potions every year. There’ll be Quidditch, maybe. Um, hexes and jinxes and stuff.” 

“I’d better make sure I get better at Dueling so I can stand a chance against you, then.”

“Fat chance.” Erik began to laugh, softly, and Charles smiled as he watched Erik on the shore, and he stepped closer. It was getting cold.

When he slid his hand into Erik’s it felt natural, and real, and _right_.

Erik didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything - most importantly, Erik didn’t pull away. He did the exact opposite. He stepped even closer to Charles. He held Charles’s hand firmly.

Charles didn’t want to say anything - not now. Maybe later.

Right now, he just wanted to be looking out at Hogwarts.

Right now, he just wanted to hold Erik’s hand.

***

**Four years later**

Charles’s hands went still over Heydrich’s belly, and the cat _nyarl_ ed impatiently and batted at his wrist for attention, and reluctantly he continued the tummy rubs.

And Erik was still sitting next to the chessboard with Sasha perched on his head, and she was holding out her wings for balance because he was laughing and shaking so hard.

“Chrismukkah,” Charles said, stumbling over the unfamiliar Muggle word. “What in Merlin’s name is that?”

Erik just kept laughing, and in the end Sasha hooted at him in annoyance and hopped off to the mantelpiece. Fortunately the fire was banked down almost to coals, so she wasn’t about to fall in and get unceremoniously roasted. 

Charles would throw the chess pieces at Erik if he weren’t so occupied with Heydrich.

Finally, Erik caught his breath and swallowed down the last of his fit. “You know Christmas.”

Charles raised a half-irate eyebrow at him. “No, I don’t, I only celebrate it every December.”

“And Edie explained Hanukkah last year, with that photo of the chanukkiyah that we have at home.”

“Yes, she did.”

“You do know that due to the inherent wandering quality of the Jewish calendar it’s entirely likely for these two celebrations to coincide?”

Charles stopped and considered that for a moment. “Er, all right, that makes sense?”

“And so - Chrismukkah,” Erik said, chucking an Owl Treat in Sasha’s direction. “We get it this year.”

“Hmm,” Charles said, and took a good look around the Ravenclaw Common Room. He had the place mostly to himself since everyone else had gone home from the holidays; he’d have done the same, but his father was busy at work. And Charles wasn’t too keen on sharing West Chester Hame with the rest of the family, who’d descended upon the empty rooms _en masse_. Hogwarts was the smarter option, this year.

Besides, Erik’s parents had run off to Majorca - as Charles understood it, they’d apparently been threatening to do it for years. Now they finally had a chance to get out of the blustering winter, and Erik had happily left them to it.

They had been keeping each other company for the holidays.

There were a lot of tables in the common room, and most of those tables had at least one set of candlesticks on top, and here and there were jam jars with residues of flickering white ash, remnants of the craze for bluebell-fire that could be carried around, which had swept the House after a recent visit from Hermione Granger.

“Better take Heydrich,” Charles said as he got up.

“What are you doing?” Erik asked.

Charles put down the battered silver candlestick from the corner that Bruce often used to nap in. He turned a relatively new steel piece over in his hands, and put that back as well. 

He began to prowl around the room, catching bits and pieces of Erik’s reflection, of the curious expression on his face. “Trying to find something to work with.”

“What are you trying to do?”

Charles paid him no attention; he folded his arms next to the staircase that led up to his dormitory, and thought hard.

He was trying to remember the light fixtures near his bed.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, after a moment, ignoring Erik’s frustrated _“Charles.”_

The candlesticks next to his bed were beautifully weathered, old and heavy and decorated with a bunch of grapes on the vine, and they were perfect.

By the time he came back down to look for a table he could work on, Erik was standing right at the foot of the staircase. “Care to explain?”

“I can do better than that,” Charles said, and put the candlesticks down. “I can just show you.”

Erik huffed loudly, and threw up his hands, and dropped unceremoniously into the nearest chair.

“We want a candelabrum, don’t we?” Charles murmured, mostly to himself. He raised his voice and smiled at Erik. “How many branches should a chanukkiyah have? And I hope I pronounced that correctly.”

“Nine, and you did. Eight branches for the candles to be lit on each day, and a ‘helper’ branch for the candle that lights all of the others. Anyway, why are you asking? I can bring the photo here, if you wait for me - ”

“No, no, that’s all right. I just wanted to get that detail right. It’s only the point, after all.” Charles reached for his wand, twirled it absently, thought about eight and one. About Edie’s letters, the easy grin on Jakob’s face. About Heydrich’s tendency to shed everywhere.

He thought about Erik’s warmth and light and presence, and when he thought that the moment was right, he took a deep breath, and flicked his wand, and murmured a few words.

He couldn’t see the transformation taking place in front of him, but he could feel the magical power working, flowing out from him.

“Charles,” someone said, as if from very far away.

It sounded like someone had been saying his name, over and over.

There was a presence facing him, a presence that he knew well, that he never wanted to be away from.

“Charles? Open your eyes, Charles.”

“Erik,” he said, and he did.

Gone were the two candlesticks he’d put on the table, and in their place was something elemental, and simple, that made him think about the shores of the Black Lake and a heavy breeze whipping through his hair. 

The curves of the candelabrum reminded him of grapevines, and of waves. One of the candle holders was set much lower than the others, on a somewhat straighter arm; and it had a shallower cup, too, compared to the others, which looked like the goblets they drank from in the Great Hall. Each holder was decorated with a single grape leaf, with the barest hint of an impression of veins and tendrils.

There was a feeling rising in him, that he could feel in the smile that he sent in Erik’s direction. What was it called? 

“Charles,” Erik said, again. He seemed to have lost the rest of his vocabulary. 

“I hope you like it,” Charles said, putting his wand away and his hands behind his back. “Something for you to use, when Chrismukkah comes around.”

The newly-made chanukkiyah gleamed faintly in the light from the embers in the fireplace.

“Charles.”

“You can stop saying my name, Erik,” Charles said, fondly. “You’re going to wear it out at this rate, and then what would people call me?”

“I’d still say your name,” Erik said, after a few minutes of strangled sounds. “It’s - I like the sound of it very much.”

“Thank you.” He pushed the candelabrum in Erik’s direction. “Take it, it’s yours.”

Erik looked like he was debating something inside his head - and then, he moved swiftly around the table, closed in on Charles.

Who stood his ground, still smiling. He wasn’t afraid of Erik - he knew he would never be. 

Erik’s eyes were stormy, full of emotions, and quickly coming nearer and nearer - until they blurred out, until they closed and Charles closed his eyes, too, because Erik was kissing him, very gently.

Very briefly - Charles whined when Erik pulled back, and grabbed him by the wrists, and pulled him back in.

The second kiss was like lighting a fire, and Charles plunged into that fierce sweet sensation, and was completely shocked when it came to its end because he couldn’t remember when they’d decided to hold each other close.

Erik’s forehead against his, broad and warm, and Charles sighed and craned up into the contact. “Don’t you let go, Erik,” he whispered.

“Never, Charles.”

**Author's Note:**

> [[Note added 11 December 2013: **Happy birthday** , Miya! <3]]


End file.
